The poem reads like a fragment of a thought that keeps breaking off. The speaker seems to have suffered for a rose ("I bled for"), something they wanted to have and to press, perhaps like a flower pressed in a book. They also say they promised a story told in a single red letter, so the rose, the blood and the writing all seem tangled together. The title, "Long-winded," sits oddly against such short, clipped lines, as if the speaker is mocking their own difficulty in getting anything said.
The feeling is pain, and a kind of helplessness. The speaker doesn't know how to carry on "without a kiss to pierce me," a striking phrase that makes affection sound as sharp as a thorn. The last line is a question: is there no quiet? Judging by the broken syntax, the mood is raw and restless, a mind searching for peace and not finding it.